The Tell-Tale Heart: A Victorian Sherlolly Story
by Emma Lynch
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is widely celebrated in Victorian London as a successful detective, renowned for his unique mind and energetic solving of the world s puzzles. Such a man has no use for a heart, particularly his own, but even Sherlock Holmes, is unable to foresee what may occur when he investigates a mysterious death and meets Miss Molly Hooper in the silence of the Mortuary...
1. Chapter 1

**THE TELL-TALE HEART**

A Sherlolly Story

" **It is impossible to say how first the idea entered**

 **my brain; but once conceived, it haunted**

 **me day and night."**

 **(Edgar Allan Poe – The Tell Tale Heart)**

* * *

 **Part I: The Great Detective**

The searing flash of magnesium powder igniting the dim parlour served to both temporarily blind and fumigate the sensibilities as the photographer raised his arm again:

"One more time, gentlemen, please."

Blinking away the involuntary tears through a grey and opaque miasma of fumes, I froze for the shutter, counting the seconds until I could reach for my pocket square. My close proximity to my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes, offered naught but admiration for his stillness and unusual degree of patience (the hour was fast approaching and the circumstances very much beyond his acquired levels of tolerance).

"Watson, you fidget in the manner of an infant –do hold fast, and allow this circus to be over."

Hmm. Perhaps not quite as tolerant as I had first surmised. Holmes likened most social gatherings (particularly those arranged to fete his talents or reward his innumerable successes within the murky criminal world of London) as ` _unwelcome`_ and ` _irritating_ ` events which called upon a man to " _either be bored, or to lie._ "

A quick glance at his aquiline profile (and an expression matched only by his starched collar) enlightened me that a man could, indeed, be called upon to do both.

The recent repatriation of the six year old Lady Frances Carfax with her impassionedly grateful parents had launched the most recent commotion in the society papers, regarding the deductive and inferential powers of my friend. When Gregson, Lestrade and the Scotland Yarders were elbow deep in despair and cold trails, my friend discovered the Queen Bee in the wrong hive, and the opportunistic kidnapper was brought to justice. A small error in apiary leading to a long incarceration at Her Majesty`s Pleasure at Brixton.

 _`Sherlock Holmes – Champion of the people`_

 _`Great Detective shows the Yarders how it`s done`_

 _`Another Triumph for the Master of the Criminal Classes`_

 _`The Pride of London – Mr Sherlock Holmes`_

Truthfully, my friend loathed the attention and plaudits that came his way. For him, the solving of the puzzle and accompanying mental cogitation was its own reward. Cold, hard logic served ever as his succour, and he constantly grumbled that such a famous and celebrated profile served for nothing but to make it increasingly impossible to travel the streets of his beloved city as anonymously and privately as he desired.

"Since all master criminals now have my image and address firmly recorded in their pocket books, Watson, there seems little point attempting to work within any boundaries of discretion. I may as well throw in my lot with the finding of thwarted lovers or lost angora rabbits!"

I privately and silently enjoyed his indignance that same evening, as I filled my pipe and added another shovel of coal to the grate; it had to be agreed – Sherlock Holmes was one of the most famous men in London, whether he liked it nor not.

 **~x~**

 **Part Two: The Mortuary Girl**

My dear father always said that affluence kept your hands clean whilst poverty kept them in the mire, a truism I am now reminded of on a daily basis. The people arrive here often in a sad and sorry state; in a condition that offers no dignity nor quiet repose at the end of their lives, more a cleansing, a cutting, a veritable investigation of their ending which necessitates endless requirements for sluicing, mopping, wiping, rinsing and cleaning. My boots are waxed and raised above the constant tide of post-mortem detritus here in the Morgue. My apron needs a nightly bleaching and the smell of formaldehyde and decay never leaves my skin and hair, even on a Sunday, when my half day allows me time for church and family.

I am Miss Molly (Margaret) Anne Hooper and I clean away death and decay whenever I am needed here in the Scotland Yard Mortuary (which is often). My limited means allow that my hours are long and my leisure time is negligible, but I do not mind. I watch, you see, and I listen. The dead are silent, and yet they speak volumes to me. Every day I am discovering and I am learning. If knowledge is power, dear reader, then soon I shall be as affluent as my father would have wished for me. Currently, I am too timid to share the astonishing details and observations that bubble up in my throat as I see Mr Sanderson or Mr Stamford opening up our patients to share their secrets with us. I am Molly Hooper and I sluice and mop and wipe and rinse and clean, and I do not count; I am not allowed to ask each silent witness how they came to be here on our slabs.

But they speak to me anyway, and one day I shall tell.

 **~x~**

 **Part Three: A Diamond in the rough**

Sherlock Holmes adjusts his lens minutely as he peers low into the blackened and swollen eyes beneath him. If the stench of decay and estuary water which has recently offered up yet another drowning victim repels him, he does not show it. As single minded and saturnine as he is, my friend is also acutely aware of the presence of close family in the room, and would be ever mindful not to upset them with outward displays of horror and disgust. James Sanderson, police pathologist, hovers sparely nearby and I know Holmes has already noted the twitching hands and slight perspiration of a man who is both uncertain of his visitor and his own abilities.

"Drowning, you say?" Murmurs my friend, as Sanderson cranes his neck over the heads of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and the morgue assistant to see what my friend sees. Alas, it is unlikely he ever will.

"My initial observations of her Ladyship indicate a bludgeoning about the skull, followed by unconsciousness and drowning."

Holmes runs a gloved finger across the clavicle of Lady Eleanor Morcor, Granddaughter of the Countess Morcor, the sole owner of a South African diamond mine and half of Mayfair.

"No mortuary incisions. You are _surmising_ that her lungs are full of water?"

"She was pulled from the Limehouse Wharf, Mr Holmes," (a voice teetering upon the brink of apprehension and resentment) "her lungs will be full of water without need for butchery to prove it."

"Indeed." Sherlock Holmes stands and snaps shut his lens, his face an unfathomable mask. "Providing she didn't draw her last breath _before_ entering the water."

As the sombre gathering moves away towards the slightly more salubrious offices of Mr Michael Stamford, Chief Pathologist, Inspector Lestrade steers Miss Catherine Cusack (Ward of the Countess and erstwhile guardian of the deceased) by her elbow and proffers lowly muttered words of condolence. It seems, at present, quite illogical that such an illustrious and privileged young Lady, shod in the finest kid leather and furs, should have been pulled unceremoniously from the river in the filthy docklands of East London by a couple of lads in a Thames Skiff. Venturing out that chill December morning in leafy Mayfair to visit friends, she had been missing for almost two days before such a grim discovery was made.

Miss Cusack, a broad and swarthily handsome woman of approximately thirty years of age, dabbed at her eyes with a lace kerchief embroidered with intertwined C`s (clearly, my friends habits and methods had begun to influence my own) and allowed herself to be led, whilst my friend and I brought up the rear, stepping over mops and buckets (an almost permanent fixture in such a place). Her voice belied her stature and issued forth thin and reedy:

"They say trouble comes in threes, Inspector. Certainly this must be true of us at present. Firstly my Lady Eleanor`s dear mama passing last winter, then the Countess being robbed from her own hotel room, and finally – this. It is beyond tolerable, sir. It cannot be borne for the Countess to suffer so. Such a terrible accident to befall such an innocent creature…"

And as I follow such a distressing litany of sorrow, I am promptly made aware that my friend is no longer beside me, and as I look back I see him speaking so quietly as not to be heard, to a small, aproned mortuary girl (probable owner of said mop and bucket), his dark head towering over her auburn one. As if aware of my gaze, he nods curtly as she also inclines her head in facsimile of a curtsey (although not quite) and each resumes their previous affectations.

"Interesting," notes he, catching up with me, and I note that his Icelandic eyes are sparkling slightly, in that way they occasionally do.

"Information?" I query, holding the door.

"Verification," he says softly, letting me.

 **~x~**

* * *

 **Felicitations to all!**

 **At the end of my last story (Breadcrumbs) I asked whether anyone would be interested in a Victorian Sherlolly tale. The general consensus was YES! so, here it is.**

 **I have loved the language of the Victorian era and the challenges of writing in a different time - no texting, hi-tech equipment or casual chit-chat in those days, I can tell you!**

 **However, although external things may be a little different for our people, I still have them (in my head canon) as looking like the BBC Sherlock characters (and behaving like them on occasion!) and although their world is Victorian, it is also a world where Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper are destined for each other, no matter how many barriers may exist between them.**

 **Hope you like it.**

 **Emma x**


	2. Two

**Part Four: Sherlock Holmes and the Hat**

My dear friend, and erstwhile biographer, Dr John H Watson so loves to paint my character in the broadest and most sensational of brush strokes in order to both enthral and entice his readership. My negligible knowledge of philosophy, astronomy and politics; my variable and selective forays into botany and geology ( _if not for a case, then why clutter up a distinctly overwhelmed brain attic?_ ); my `eccentric` chemistry ( _it seems that burns do not always enhance the mahogany of the breakfast table_ ) and apparent `self-poisoning` by cocaine and tobacco have been whipped up into an unseemly exaggeration of my own true nature for a goggle-eyed London populous to enjoy over their morning coffee. I do, however, elect to indulge Watson his little flourishes, since I owe him both my sanity and, on several occasions, my life. Suffice to say, he is at his most accurate when describing the more subtle nuances of my character, and in particular, the fact that I am very rarely surprised.

When you have become embroiled and enveloped within the dark underbelly of crime and its far-reaching tendrils, you do also become rather immune to some of its more shocking elements. Two sets of ears in a biscuit tin; a baboon roaming the grounds of a man`s estate; a South American vampire at large in a Sussex mansion – both Watson and I have teetered on the brink of sanity on many occasions, and yet I have always endeavoured to maintain an unshakable stoicism which serves to both calm the nerves of my client and myself. I am the only consulting detective in the world (I invented the job) and find it wise to affect an unruffled exterior whenever possible.

Thus, rarely surprised.

But _rarely_ is not _never_.

I entered the mortuary alone later that evening. Grieving relatives and the fussing of Scotland Yarders do little but irritate when I really need to think. The good Doctor had retired for the night with a hot toddy (his last Afghan campaign had left his chest more brittle and susceptible than it had previously been, although he would attest to the contrary) which allowed me my freedom. Sometimes the inside of my head is the only place I feel truly at liberty.

The gas lamps were dim and a constant drip could be heard in the far reaches of the room. Only two bodies were laid out (one of them being the late Lady Eleanor) and the faint slip-slop of rag over tile could be heard as a late December wind began to whip up from the East.

"Mr Holmes, a word if I may?"

Damn and blast … Gregson.

His office was overstuffed and under-heated. I deduced a poorly clerk and unreliable coal merchant. I also elected silence upon the matter, since he was twirling in his hand a rather interesting piece of evidence – a lady`s hat.

"This was found at the crime scene?" I offer. "The first crime. The theft from the Countesses hotel room?" His gaze appears puzzled. I realise I must explain further. "The evidence label – the penmanship is the same, as is the crime number. The hat is in good condition; clearly not dredged from the Thames. Also, a size too large for our victim. You suspect the two crimes may be linked; I agree. What was taken from the hotel room? You have been less than forthcoming with me, Inspector."

He is shaking his head, yet smiling. I am unsure how to proceed.

"I think you are, once more, a few steps ahead of us, Mr Holmes. With all concerns focused upon her grand-daughter`s disappearance, it was only this morning that the Countess Morcor reported the theft of a valuable stone from her hotel safe. We have an arrest warrant for a gas fitter, a James Horner, who was seen leaving the room that day. This could lead us to the killer."

"You are satisfied it was no accident?" This is good news. I would not wish to have to point out such an obvious conclusion. He nods his head.

"And the stone? It was valuable?" Inspector Gregson consults his police notebook (a habit I wish more would deign to employ. Inaccuracies tend to infuriate me. Watson would attest – another bad habit of my own).

"`The Blue Carbuncle`" he intones, squinting slightly at his own handwriting (none of us are perfect, it would seem). "Mined in 1823 from Count Eric Morcor`s mine in Johannesburg, and presented to his bride on their wedding day." He glances up at me. "It is currently valued at £20,000 Mr Holmes. Apparently, they are more commonly found in red; blue is the rarest variety."

Hmm. Blue in nature always proves to be the more deadly option, it would seem.

 **~x~**

 **Part Five: A Surfeit of Deductions**

I am more than a little jolted when I hear his words cut abruptly through the cool mortuary stillness:

"Is it fresh?"

So startled, in fact, that I drop the rough-hewn shroud in surprise, so that it pools almost classically around the set features of the corpse. Even so, I know of this voice, and of this man, and something nudges into my mind, advising me against artifice or affectation.

So I merely say:

"Mr Joshua Davies – brought in from Piccadilly Circus a mere two hours ago."

He moves silently; sparingly, like a cat. Not a step wasted nor a hesitation brooked. Black, leather gloved hands smooth back the shroud from Mr Davies; hands and eyes (the former, barely skimming the body, the latter boring into its supine layers, as if transparent).

"A blunt instrument to the left temple, " I venture ( _too bold, Margaret Hooper! Comes my dead mother`s voice_ ). "Also – " I hesitate ( _goodness, the dead do seemingly haunt both my conscious and subconscious these days_ ) and as I do so, the black gloved hands falter and I know he is looking at me, even though my eyes are downcast and _tremendously_ focused upon Mr Davies.

" _What_ have you noticed? What did you _see_?" There is a tiny, infinitesimal tremor in his voice; the laconic assuredness is gone, replaced by something much more human –

Excitement.

"I – I`m not quite sure … "

"Yes, yes you are. You were right about the haemorrhaging in the eyes of Lady Eleanor. I know that she was asphyxiated, not drowned, as do you."

"Sir, I am the mortuary maid of work; I am not paid to have opinions regarding the nature of death, just the cleaning up of the mess it leaves in its wake."

He is so still, so quiet then, that I am compelled to lift my eyes and meet with his, as anything else would be –

 _Oh._

 _Heterochromia Iridum_. Layers of green, of blue; depth of colour, followed by almost translucent light … the eyes of Sherlock Holmes, The Great Detective, who`s mouth is moving, since he appears to be speaking – to me (so quietly, in the quietest of places).

"That, dear lady, could be a very accurate definition of my own career. Please ensure that Dr Watson never hears of it." And, for the briefest of moments, I hear a lightness in his tone, as if to put me at my ease. He wants my trust, and somehow, he has it.

"I – I noticed that Mr Davies`s bruising was a little unusual in its colouration."

"How so?" The eyes so hard and focused once more, as if a semblance had passed across his face.

Lifting the shroud further, I point out the faint, yet visible markings around the impacted wound which had ended the life of this man.

"See, here – and here … it appears out of place, Sir. I have witnessed so many variants on a bruise; a compression wound of this nature, but never seen such a singular pattern and discolouration. Mr Sanderson says – "

Sherlock Holmes emits a sound which I swiftly understand to be distaste and thus, determine upon another avenue of opinion:

"The general consensus, Sir, is murder."

Sherlock Holmes tilts his head to one side, steps back and folds his black overcoated arms as he contemplates poor Mr Davies.

"He seemed a popular man to me, Sir." I add. "People have been by. He was nice."

"He _was_ nice. This man`s colouration, clear sedentary habits, wear on his inner thumbs and habit of wearing his hat perched on the back of his head all point to the fact he was a London cabbie who, tragically, fell from his own cab and was accidentally kicked in the head by his own horse. The discolouration you noticed is indeed irreconcilable with a natural bruising pattern because it is rust, from a nail in the shoe of a poor horse now without a master. If Lestrade or Gregson start listening to Sanderson with any degree of reliance, I shall have no option but to take them to task upon the matter."

At that, the fine gentleman turned and gave me the sparest of smiles, which swift advanced when noting my astonishment.

"Not so very clever, Ma`am. Indeed, it was your very own observations which piqued my interest." Whereupon, Sherlock Holmes reaches across, pulls out a small stool and bids me to sit upon it.

"I wonder," his eyes almost glow their translucence beneath the flickering gas, "could you possibly relinquish your mop and slop bucket for five more precious minutes whilst you give me the benefit of your observational skills upon this very fine lady`s headgear? I must warn you, I am very persuasive when the cause is just."

 **~x~**

Her fingers are small, deft and precise in their exploration, whilst intense brown eyes appear almost ferocious as they roll across the stiffened felt and beribboned confection in her grasp. Watson frequently chides me regarding my mistrust of the fairer sex, since I find them to be naturally secretive, (even the best of them), however, this small and slightly under-nourished creature affects an open and focused desire to … _discover_.

"I – I don`t really … "

"You must look."

"I can see – "

"You see, but you do not observe – the distinction is clear." I resist the dominant urge to relieve her of the hat and share my own discourse on its owner, but before I resort to such unchivalrous behaviour –

"So, Mr Holmes, what do I _see_ about the individuality of the person who wore this article? The lady is of an intellectual persuasion (a larger fitting suggests a larger brain), and a lady who has lived frugally but had, within recent years, become more accustomed to wealth and privilege."

Indeed. The hat was a recent purchase (highly in fashion in certain circles) and evidence of a hat-securer about its brim indicated a person new to wealth, who had taken measures against the frivolity and carelessness of those born into it.

"Slight perspiration stains about the lining indicate a lady of moderate fitness; a sedentary person who has only infrequent bursts of activity; yet, a young person, judging by the dark hair I see beneath the hat band …"

Quite, quite remarkable.

"… and – there is something else I may – _observe,_ sir."

"Please."

"This hat," she holds it aloft, rotating its navy feather, jaunty and tremulous as it turns in the space between us. "This hat fills me with a strange sense of sadness, Mr Holmes. Although expensively purchased, I feel it has been neglected, as has its owner." The brown eyes lift and meet with my own, conveying a genuinely earnest sense of sorrow, and I am momentarily, inexplicably, _moved_.

"I feel, Mr Holmes, that someone very close to the owner of this hat has … ceased to love them."

As previously ascertained, I am rarely surprised, and when I am, I hold it closely, like a jewel that is richer and more precious than a thousand well-meant accolades.

 **~x~**

* * *

 **Hello, and thank you to those who have read, reviewed or followed - lovely!**

 **I had so few characters to summarise the story (I always waffle on too much) that I forgot a most important piece of information - this story (as some have most likely noted) is based on The Blue Carbuncle by ACD and I have melded the plot to my own Sherlolly needs (apologies, Sir Arthur, but needs must).**

 **Hope this chapter reads ok. :)**


	3. Three

**Part Six: The Goose and the Handkerchief**

Billy the page brought in the morning papers and a note, unstamped and slightly smudged by the heavy rain holding the Capital to ransom that frozen December morning. Holmes was at his violin and had been less than conversational that day, which I determined was due to the fact he had only slept for a maximum of three hours since returning to Baker Street in the earliest of hours. His notes were low and slightly mournful, which may have denoted a certain melancholy, had I not perceived a lightness of step and a quivering energy hovering about him. Such moods were rare and could lead a famed detective and his humble biographer into no end of trouble, as I had learnt to my cost.

"Open it, Watson," he ordered, mid-arpeggio, "I have no time for letter knives."

"It`s a note from Wiggins," I declare, having ripped open the brief missive. "It appears that the Irregulars have chanced upon a fellow they wish you to meet." I pause. "I am quite positive this fellow has had little say in the matter."

And as the words leave my mouth, a clatter is heard abruptly in the street below; young voices, proclaiming outrage and offense, coupled with the deeper rumblings of an older man; a conflagration of ill-humour, frequent scuffling and potential altercation.

A sharp ring on the bell has both Holmes and myself bounding down the seventeen stairs to assist in the matter, before Mrs Hudson has her morning disturbed further. Wiggins, Jenkins and a trio of lesser fellows have a ruddy, shaven headed and struggling working man in their grasp. I immediately note his eye beginning to discolour coupled with bleeding from the corner of his mouth, and make my own deductions regarding the persuasive powers of Holmes`s street boys, and it appeared he shared my observations.

"Wiggins, I trust there is good reason for such a violent assignation upon my doorstep."

"Indeed there is Mister `olmes, sir – _keep still you scoundrel_ – seems when this fellow was shopping for his Christmas goose, he thought it wise to snatch one from a young lady`s maid over there, on the corner of Marylebone. Shame for him `e was spotted by Fergus here, who called us over in a trice and we thought you might `ave a few stern words to warn him off doin` it no more."

By now, the man had ceased to struggle, clearly realising his energies would be wasted further, and we managed to get him up the stairs and pushed into a seat, where he sat, breathing heavily and dabbing at his mouth with a small handkerchief.

"Attacked by feral street urchins!" Moaned he, wincing. "Can a man not bring about a simple business deal regarding his Christmas dinner without being – set upon?"

"Business deal?" Wiggins pokes the man for greater emphasis before a sharp look from my companion silences him.

"Wiggins, boys – have I not already had cause to mention that this is not a local office of the Bow Street Runners, and I am _not_ a policeman. This kind of disturbance should not be brought to a gentleman`s chambers on a Sunday morning; it is not to be tolerated. However, sir (turning to our reluctant guest) I feel your situation is not an attractive one. My boys are occasionally a little heavy-handed, but always sharp-eyed and honest with me. Did you attempt to take a goose from a young woman without her acquiescence, or did you not?"

Holmes` eyes bore into the squirming creature, who was becoming increasingly aware that his situation was less than ideal.

"I aint done nothing, I tell you – "

"Oh, I don`t think that to be entirely true, do you? Watson, do you recognise the weals and callouses on this fellow`s hands? The splay of his nose and the malformation of the ears? I also recognise the lapel pin. You are one of Mr Baker`s _Alpha Street pugilists_ , are you not? A man who fights for money in the back streets of the East End has little use for business deals; he takes what he wants when he wants it, and pity the person who catches the less than law-abiding eye of this villain for hire."

Heavily hooded and bloodshot eyes look up at my companion, a mixture of unfathomable notions crossing his face simultaneously, in an almost comical fashion.

"I don`t want no trouble; `specially from Mister Sherlock `olmes."

The subject of so many of my writings and so many thankful patrons glances so fleetingly in my direction, and it is only my close friendship with him that recognises the briefest rolling of the eyes. It seemed his reputation was indeed spread wide amongst the villains and the foot-pads of our capital.

Then, in an astonishing _volt-face_ , Holmes turns to our visitor and his tone is suddenly light-hearted – jovial, almost.

"Well, it must be said, Mr - ? "

"Breckinridge."

"Mr Breckinridge, that no actual serious harm was done. Our lady was reunited with her goose, you received the drubbing you deserved from my Irregulars here, and henceforth you will be more than aware of my interest in your – proclivities in the criminal world. In the spirit of the season, I see no real reason to bother the official law-keepers at such a busy time of year, thus I shall send you on your way, hopefully a wiser man than you were on hour ago."

As surprised as I was at such a swift turnaround, I have long known to make little mention of such concerns, since Sherlock Holmes usually has his reasons (however _outré)_ for his apparently irrational behaviours. I have learnt, dear reader, to bide my time.

And sure enough, the moment we heard our heavy footed goose thief clatter his way thankfully down the stairs, my companion started to the window, a veritable quiver of rabid activity and anticipation. The game, it seemed, was afoot.

"Quick, Watson, hurry dear fellow. A cab has fortuitously alighted at our very stoop and we must follow Breckinridge – now, make haste!"

Gathering my muffler and slipping my Browning into my jacket, I noticed snow had started to fall in the darkening afternoon.

"Holmes, if you feel a sudden urge to share why we are doing this - ?"

"My dear man, is it possible you did not see? The handkerchief! The blood of a lowly third-rate criminal would not normally be staunched with a delicate, lace trimmed silk kerchief with the initials of our recently deceased Lady Eleanor embroidered in the corner, and yet it was so in this sitting room, a mere four minutes since. That lace, I noticed, also trimmed the handkerchief used by Miss Catherine Cusack, ward to Lady Morcor, at the morgue yesterday. So many noble houses commission their own pattern, and it is instantly recognisable to the trained eye – _my_ trained eye, to be precise. Surely, you have read my small monograph on the individuality of British and European lace making? A seminal work, I am told, Watson!"

Recklessly, we clatter down the stairs, Holmes not pausing to draw breath as we assume our winter greatcoats and walking canes. Holmes lifts his own stick to halt the cabbie, who is opening the door to let out his current fare. A foot alights, and it is a woman; it is Miss Molly Hooper.

 **~x~**


	4. Four

**Part Seven: A Rare Jewel**

It is a most bizarre and strenuous situation, to be sure.

We three huddle inside the cab, our breath rising in floury plumes as the night`s cold air condenses our words, and we sit, somewhere between home and pursuit, yet unable to set forth to either. I am verging upon incredulity that my companion would halt so in his task; Mr Breckinridge was becoming a distant figure along the length of Baker Street, soon too far away to be followed at all. Yet, his eyes scan the face of our mortuary maid and his body shows uncharacteristic patience as she pulls a drawstring purse from her sleeve. Her coat, I notice, is thin and threadbare and not at all suited for a soon to be freezing December night.

"A cab, Miss Hooper?" Such extravagance was clearly beyond her means which indicated, I knew, the urgency of her mission.

The girl merely shook her head; less in answer, but more to clear it for more important matters.

"She wasn't strangled, Sir, she was asphyxiated; she was choked to death with _this_."

Our two head look down to see. She holds out her hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm is a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in her glove`s dark hollow.

The Blue Carbuncle.

 **~x~**

We were crossing the river and had managed to keep sight of Breckenridge, who had acquired a cab of his own, since his journey was proving to be a long one. Through an increasingly heavy fall of snow, double-fronters became terraces, terraces became small cottages, and we quickly ascertained a less salubrious side of town was to be our probable destination.

And all the time, Mr Sherlock Holmes and Miss Molly Hooper continued to exchange urgent words.

"Inspector Lestrade arrested John Horner, the gas fitter who was seen leaving Lady Morcor`s hotel room this morning. I know this man is innocent, Mr Holmes."

"How so?"

She pauses momentarily and the clatter of hooves on cobbles are all we hear.

"He has such an innocence about his eyes, sir."

Fully expecting a retort of impatience at such whimsy, I am somewhat surprised to hear him say:

"Please elaborate."

"Truthfully, Mr Horner has been imprisoned previously, but I feel strongly that he is a reformed character who would bear no ill-will to a virtual stranger."

"The gem you hold in your sleeve is worth no less than £20,000," I interject. "Any man might be tempted, Miss Hooper."

"I happen to know, Dr Watson, that Mr Horner was recently reunited with his childhood sweetheart, and was looking to start a new life with her and their child. Real love is a strong, powerful enabler and must not be underestimated."

Again, the anticipated snort of derision from the man who had once labelled love _`a far more vicious motivator_ ` never came. I glanced at my friend, as if to gain the mind`s construction in the face, but his set expression gave nothing away, and my slightly untethered puzzlement deepened. This was a man I knew as I knew myself (at times, more so) but this night was proving to be new and uncharted territory. As a lover, Sherlock Holmes would have placed himself in a false position. The softer notions of the heart caused nought but grit upon the lens of such an analytical and finely tuned mind as his. Truthfully, he had admired few of the fairer sex, and any begrudging acknowledgement of their worth was based purely on an admiration of their own intellectual talents challenging his own. Admiration based upon any other quarter (beauty, kindness, accomplishment, sweet humour) was most alien to his brain.

 _And yet_ …

The cab lurches forward, then shudders to a greasy stop in the freshly fallen snow. Breckinridge has reached his destination; a squat, red-bricked terrace near the railway arches and in possession of an unkempt garden. A dog barks, echoing under the railway bridge, and from far away, the crying of an infant carries in the night air.

"Mr Ryder in? I need to see `im!" Our quarry`s words were harshly issued, born of stress and un-used to fortitude that had been imposed upon him. It seemed like minutes, but in reality, only moments later the white face of a small, weasily looking man, almost cringing before the imposing form of Breckinridge, appears at the door. Holmes has his hand atop my shoulder, as if to steady our nerves with his physicality; at the sight of Ryder, I feel his hand tighten momentarily, then it is gone.

"I need a little word with you, my friend. I`ve had a few close shaves this day and we need to get things straight." Breckinridge`s words appear to brook no refusal, and Ryder nods, without words, holding open the door for his unwelcome visitor.

I feel the weight in the cab shift as Sherlock Holmes slumps back into his seat and knock on the ceiling to the cabbie.

"Belgravia, my man. We must repair to the Hotel Cosmopolitan. I have a hotel room to search, and a man`s innocence to prove. We have seen all we need to see here."

And as the hooves take to the cobbles again, I sink back into my seat and ruminate upon everything I have seen – and everything I have missed.

 **~x~**

 **Part Eight: An Inconsistency of Evidence**

Lestrade hovers above me as I examine the safe and I am forced to bite back my irritation (social niceties are charming, but often serve to merely slow down my work) as I examine the abrasions about the keyhole and the badly treated handle. It is fortuitous then, that my (very elementary) deductions are complete within the space of two and a half minutes (my _dear_ brother Mycroft would goad that I was slipping). I sit back upon my heels, causing him to step back abruptly, knocking into a parlour fern. I do not smile, but I want to.

"Horner is innocent. Release him and we can apprehend the real villains in this piece, Lestrade."

His face: a veritable _compound_ of confusion and impatience.

"Mr Holmes, you can`t be serious? The man is a convicted criminal. He was reported leaving the suite hurriedly the morning of the robbery; the very day Lady Eleanor disappeared. He was agitated."

"Reported by whom?"

Notebooks and illegible handwriting are squinted at (it seems that all policemen share a similar malaise of poor penmanship).

"A young man – a guest at the hotel, most likely at the conference in the Grand Ballroom that day (more rustling of pages) – some kind of conference for schoolmasters. Small, well-mannered, smart …"

"And unnamed?" adds John Watson, to my inner _jouissance_.

Lestrade is pinker than previously.

"A reliable witness, Mr Holmes, nevertheless. Circumstances must point to – "

I sigh. This is taking far too long, and time is our enemy. I glance across to the settle to see Molly Hooper looking directly at a triptych of framed portraits of the Countess, her deceased daughter and grand-daughter, and I am _thrilled_ to see she is _frowning_ … then her finely arched brows lift, and I know that she knows … she _knows_ …

"Horner was jailed by the Assizes two years ago for the crime of breaking, entering and safe-cracking, Lestrade. The marks, scratches and shoddy use of a key (yes, a key has been recently used in this lock, not a jemmy) would be a shameful testimony to the man`s chosen area of criminality. He would have left very few marks and certainly not had access to a key. He did not take the Blue Carbuncle."

(At that very moment, an official source – perhaps even my dear brother – was reuniting the Countess with her precious legacy. More the pity he could not reunite her with the poor creature now lying white and lifeless in the mortuary)

"Then, Mr Holmes, who did?"

"Countess Morcar`s grand-daughter, the late Lady Eleanor," I respond, lowering my eyes towards the daguerreotypes, still lying in the gloved hands of Miss Molly Hooper.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you so much for the kindly and constructive reviews - feedback is love! :)**

 **Guest: Thank you so much for the encouragement; much appreciated. x**


	5. Five

**Part Nine: Advice from a Higher Quarter**

Mr Sherlock Holmes is a man celebrated by all walks of society in this town. His reputation has grown steadily and his stature as a criminologist and powerful agent of deduction is to be respected and greatly admired. However, _dear_ Sherlock can occasionally become so ardently embroiled within the tasks he undertakes, he is liable to forget himself, and it lies within the remit of other, _interested parties_ , to temper his enthusiasm as the need arises.

This is often a job that falls into my own, somewhat reluctant, lap.

My name is Mycroft Holmes, and I have the privilege of being his brother.

I peer at the Detective Inspector from across a sea of highly-polished mahogany and note his fraying cuffs and un-brushed hat. It is more than likely, I decide, that domestic strife troubles Lestrade, but I sense a more urgent incident has superseded his obvious marital woes –

My brother, Sherlock.

" – so, as well as the accusation of theft towards a dead woman, he now has … _people,_ sending a telegram (anonymous, of course), summonsing some poor, whey-faced schoolteacher to an assignation, so we can lay the cuffs on him, or some such nonsense."

"Sherlock rarely acts on a whim, Inspector. Could he not have legitimate cause to instigate such a singular course of actions? I trust you have released Horner?"

"Against my better judgement!"

I lean back, pressing together the tips of my fingers, commenting:

"Ah – no, no – the man was clearly innocent; it had to be done."

I then adjust my seating, since a badly digested mutton chop is beginning to impose a degree of unpleasantness upon my system.

"You should meet this man – Ryder? – at the place that Sherlock has elected – "

"The Alpha Inn. Wrong side of town; full of low-lifes, vagabonds and footpads. Bare knuckle fist fights and illegal gambling."

"Ah, it sounds perfect." I smile broadly, hiding a broader discomfiture. Things must be brought to a head, for all our sakes.

"If Sherlock can gain any form of reparation for the Countess, then any idea of his is worth embarking upon." I pause, despite my turmoil. "You are not always quite so tremulous regarding my brother`s more unusual requests, Lestrade. There is clearly something else that attests to irk you. Now, what can it be? Pray, elucidate."

Lestrade appears a little awkward. He has complained about some of my brother`s more high-handed decision making on several occasions, so I am finding it difficult to grasp his motivation. Is there a faint flush hovering across his grey-whiskered cheeks? Hmm. Stomach forgotten, I swiftly postulate three possible options which would account for such behaviour, and –

"He appears … to be quite … distracted – by a _woman,_ " mutters he, eyes downwards.

 _That_ was not one of them.

 **~x~**

 **Part Ten: The Game is afoot**

The Inn`s back parlour is both overcrowded and almost sulphurous in the intermingled stench of tobacco smoke and cheap whisky. I am not in the presence of gentlefolk, and, indeed, I am not gentlefolk myself this foggy evening. Scarce would I have believed, if questioned, that two days before Christmas, I should be ensconced in a cheap pea-jacket and rakish cap, attempting to blend anonymously into those lower echelons of society, thrown forth by Estuary muck and criminal persuasion. A muffled and bearded swarthy fellow shuffles towards me, carrying two quarts of foaming ale, and sniffing marshily, almost in time with the hatefully raucous accordion being tortured slowly by some wretch over by the spittoon. He is limping badly and almost collapses into the chair next to mine. Miraculously, not a single drop of the scummy broth spills over. I scowl into his bright blue eyes and he doubles up to hide a smile.

"Dear lord, Watson – I said to _blend in_. You could not, if held at gun point, look more ill at ease."

His teeth are blackened and his black curls greyed and wizened, but Sherlock Holmes looks as happy as he would emerging from an evening at Covent Garden, whilst he slops the tankards onto the rough wooden bench beside us.

"Being held at gun point is a very real possibility in here, Holmes…"

"Yes, cut-throats at every turn…"

"… folk who would throw you into the river for a tanner…"

" … would take your purse, your pocket watch and laugh whilst doing it."

We glance, sideways at each other, always keeping an eye on the room.

"Care to continue?" asks he.

"God, yes," I reply, smiling back.

 **~x~**

 **Twelve hours previously …**

Miss Molly Hooper had certainly proved herself most resourceful. If, at first, I had been taken aback by my misogynistic friend`s swift and complete trust in her abilities, I now realised that she was – in fact – _rather splendid_.

Upon visiting Countess Morcar, I had been most anxious; both for her obvious and all-consuming grief (refusal to co-operate with the constabulary had caused Gregson and Lestrade more than enough sleepless nights), as well as her potential reactions to Holmes`s rather far-fetched version of events (though I knew his reasoning to be just and true, a person not attuned to his methods may have struggled to accept our proposed course of action).

Anxious? Not so Miss Hooper.

Despite Lestrade`s rather dubious acquiescence, the seemingly frail and patchily-clad morgue assistant attended upon the Countess at Holmes`s insistence, and she never quavered for even a moment. The hunched, pale, yet composed and utterly regal old lady appeared to bear her loss as stoically as our own, dear Queen, but one look into her sunken and defeated eyes told their own story.

Stepping swiftly and silently across the Arbusson rug, young Miss Hooper breeched all forms of convention and knelt at the feet of the black-veiled grandmother and (incredibly) took fast her hand, staring hard into her shocked visage.

"I am so sorry, Countess, for the great losses you have borne. I too, have lost people so very close and so very loved, and thought that my body would break with the wrenching ache of that loss. All I can offer is that rawness can heal, just in the heart and mind as it can in the body. My father was a doctor, a good one, and he told me much of the miraculous feats a heart and soul is capable of, if it gets the chance to mend itself. He taught me that it is a privilege, Countess, to celebrate the life of a truly good person, like your sweet Eleanor, and that we should embrace the wonderfulness that was that life, and pay heed to it every day. I do, for both my father and my mother, and you shall too."

The Countess said nothing, but a softness about her eyes told me she listened and that she hungered for more words.

As if in response, the mortuary maid turned to myself and my companion, gesturing with her free hand.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes, Dr John Watson. Good men, Countess Morcar; good men who know how your beloved girl died and who know how we apprehend those responsible. We shall find these men and we shall bring to bear the misery that has bereaved your precious family. All we need is your knowledge and acquiescence of our plans … and, I would also like you to know that Lady Eleanor gave her last breath for the love of her grandmamma."

A stunned silence of moments (stretching into eternity) followed, and I could feel (rather than see) the squirm and fidget of our favoured Detective Inspector, until –

Countess Morcar had waved away the advances of her approaching ward, Miss Cusack (who left hurriedly, as if stricken) and given Molly Hooper her full attention, taking the girl`s small, white hand in her own gloved ones. Her voice (obvious that it was once strong and commanding) came as a pale imitation of its former self. Nevertheless, it carried weight and purpose:

"Thank you, my dear. Please ask Mr Holmes to come closer and share his thoughts with us."

I imagined Holmes to have a mildly exultant look as he approached the fine lady, yet his gaze was only for Miss Molly Hooper.

 **~x~**


	6. Six

**12 hours later (back at the Alpha Inn) …**

It is always a capital mistake to assume that, since one has truth and justice as allies, one must also triumph in a sudden (and slightly unexpected) physical altercation.

For this is not always so.

Upon reflection, to enter the den of established bare-knuckle fighters with little more than a strong sense of moral and intellectual superiority is most certainly verging upon insanity –

And yet, here we were.

The telegram to Mr James Ryder had read as thus:

 _`It is in your utmost interests to claim your birth-right {stop} I have justice and reward {stop} You must take what you deserve {stop} Scotland Yard do not see resemblance {stop} Alpha Inn at seven {stop} Henry Baker {stop}`_

Molly Hooper, erstwhile morgue assistant, and (of late) Baker Street Irregular, was seen entering the Telegraph Office at the end of Grafton Street a little after half past four that afternoon, and leaving it nine minutes later. Less than three hours on from this seemingly commonplace event, Mr James Ryder arrived at the Alpha Inn, accompanied by none other than Miss Catherine Cusack (clearly neglecting her duties to the Countess Morcar) and (rather unfortunately) a contingent of pugilistic gentlemen, none of whom cared for accusations of skulduggery, attempted blackmail, kidnap and most pernicious wrong-doings towards a benevolent and long-suffering elderly Lady.

Time appeared to have stood temporarily still, since it could have been hours, or just mere moments since the opening punch was thrown and the ugly underbelly of crime in the London Docklands was rent open, bare and exposed, for all to witness. Ultimately, despite my own ( _not inconsiderable_ ) talents as a ringster and Watson`s British army training, it took a skyward shot from his Browning and the clatter of Police workboots on the stair to dissemble the mob and leave the two instigators in our keeping. (I felt assured that Mr Breckinridge and cronies could more readily be apprehended whenever the next fight was scheduled; a man must keep abeyance to his trade, however unceremonious and ill-fitting).

I have much to parse with Mr Ryder, school teacher, blackmailer, kidnapper and bastard heir to the considerable Morcar fortune. Weasily, weak-willed and with delusions of a hearty welcome into the Morcar dynasty, Ryder had never forgiven the Count for failing to acknowledge his claim upon the family inheritance. Intermittently, and without success, he approached the family with ill-timed hints at exposure to the papers and it was this unspoken threat of blackmail rather than the claim itself, which turned him from the family door. Upon the untimely death of Lady Eleanor`s poor mother the previous year, Ryder saw his chance once more, and was once more rejected. Seething with sufferance and rejection, he took matters into his own hands.

"Ryder selected several criminal low-lifes from the Alpha Inn to apprehend Lady Eleanor on the very day she had elected to take a trip into town. He had attended an educational conference at the hotel as a delegate to discreetly track her movements, which was made considerably easier by his unseemly alliance with Miss Cusack, herself plagued by jealousy, resentment and hatred of her guardian`s true love – her own grand-daughter. Nothing is more dangerous than a woman scorned, Lestrade," I added, lighting a cigarette in his office, a mere hour before our assignation at the Alpha Inn.

"So, the idea, then, was to extort a ransom, not to steal the stone?"

His puzzlement was genuine and he had allocated several men to my cause, therefore I gave him an increment of patience I so seldom make essay to.

"Indeed. Ryder was not to know that very morning, the Lady Eleanor had elected to surprise her Grandmother by secretly taking the Blue Carbuncle from her hotel room safe (she had secreted the key, but was not adept at using it, since she feared being discovered and the surprise being ruined) and taking it to Hatton Gardens to be cleaned in time for Countess Morcar`s birthday."

"Yet she never reached her destination."

"Alas, no." I inhaled and contemplated Miss Molly Hooper`s light fingers, brushing the matted hair away from the forehead of the body. _Just a girl_ , she had murmured. _Just a child_.

I look up, and see Lestrade regarding me; expectant? ( _Impatient_ ).

Her Ladyship had been abducted, near the Old Kent Road, and taken to a most inhospitable venue where she was to be held to ransom.

"Upon reasoning her abduction had everything to do with her family jewel, and nothing to do with a resentful family member, Lady Eleanor hastily swallowed the gem, which stuck fast in her throat, and all the machinations and efforts of Ryder, Cusack, Breckinridge et al could not unblock her airway before she suffocated and died."

Lestrade appeared wan and tired ( _more domestic strife, I surmised_ ), yet horrified at the grimness of such a situation. I rarely allow the crimes that occupy my mind overwhelm my emotional response, yet, for an instant, I too was engulfed by an image of her last moments, her struggle for life –

It wasn`t until the Detective Inspector reached out and touched my sleeve that I gathered my countenance, glanced up and caught my reflection in the glass above his desk.

"Mr Holmes, are you - ? You looked … _stricken_."

Alas, I fear I did.

 **~x~**

 **Part Eleven: Clarity**

Memories surge forth, unsolicited, back in the shambolic bar room of the Alpha Inn, and I catch the shameful demeanour of James Ryder ( _the Morcar family resemblance was startling from the moment I spied his pale, thin face outside his folorn little house in Houndsditch_ ) and his accomplice staring at me from an oddly positioned seat, where a constable appears to be arresting them. I cannot place their expressions, but wonder why so many feet are in my eye-line and … wetness is discernible beneath my back; wetness and the rough abrasions of wood ( _floorboards? Cheap pine? Certainly smell as such_ ). Water? Blood? No. Pungency of hops and barley and overwhelming juniper ( _beer, gin_ ) seems to be seeping into my garments ( _why?_ ) and my mind feels untethered and unfocused momentarily ( _ridiculous_ ) as I see a gas jet flicker ( _always happens here when a heavy waggon goes by – I have catalogued it many times_ ) and wonder ( _again_ ) how I can see from beneath its jutting mantle …? Ryder and Cusack stand; hands behind their backs and escorted by Scotland Yard`s finest ( _I have, many times, been too dismissive of the fine work they do. I must mention this to Lestrade. Or Gregson_ ). The lamps are low in here, since my vision is dimmer ( _suddenly?_ ) How long has it been that I am in such an odd position, since I have now realised I am lying down …

Warm hands touch my head, my face and I feel a comfort, as something heavy falls across me and cuts straight through the biting cold I was beginning to take note of, and –

"Stop trying to think, Holmes, and keep still!"

Watson _. Dear John Watson_. I mean to grasp his wrist, but someone holds fast my hand.

"You have a concussion, Mr Holmes, quite a bad one. You need to lie still while I take your pulse."

Small, soft warm hand. Brown eyes; deep, shining ( _and indigo in parts –_ _how unusual and enticing_ ) and filled with a compassion that had touched me mere days before ( _or weeks, or months or millennia, who knows?_ ) and had never truly let me loose.

Miss Molly Hooper.

Miss Hooper.

 _Molly._

"The hat." ( _I am unsure as to why I whisper, since the time for secrecy regarding familial treachery is long past_ ) "It belonged to Miss Cusack. Found near the safe and she felt unable to claim it, for fear of arousing suspicion ..."

"Ssshhh. Close your eyes." Her words are soft ( _like balm, like thistledown_ ) and my aching head thrums a little less. I fancy I feel her breath across my face ( _like silken gossamer, like cobwebs_ ) as she leans in ( _her weight shifts, slightly, but I notice. I always notice_.)

"Slightly elevated," she murmurs, laying down my wrist. "Pupils dilated. And you, Sir, should stop talking. Your doctor`s bidding."

"You are my doctor."

A breath; a tiny tincture of humour across its breadth.

"I meant Doctor Watson. I am no doctor, Sir."

My eyes flash open, since I am sure that I need to see her face as I tell her:

"You are. You should be. _You shall be_."

And the rest was silence.

 **~x~**


	7. Seven

**Part Twelve: A Question of Propriety**

 _ **Christmas Eve**_

 _ **3pm**_

 _ **Baker Street**_

I heft the cumbersome beast, more forcefully this time, and take greater purchase on the pavement, as it glistens with an unwelcome sheen of slippery frost.

"Do be careful, Doctor Watson!" Mrs Hudson`s voice rises slightly in her consternation, as vividly as our expelled breaths in the freezing air. "You mustn't bruise the white meat; the taste will be quite affected, I must tell you!"

I felt certain that I had encountered more than was my fair share of poultry this festive season, and yet, here I was, bringing home my landlady`s Christmas goose, just in time for the big day itself. Truthfully, I did not resent the task too ungraciously, since the dear woman was a skilled and consummate cook, ensuring that Sherlock Holmes and myself rarely did without a good supper, particularly at times of festivity.

"Certainly, Mrs Hudson, this bird will have been treated more considerately since it`s death than any time during its time on this earth. I am merely avoiding a herniated transverse abdominal – "

"Doctor Watson, I will not allow that sort of language, I have told you before!"

"I am merely saying – "

A glance in her direction quietens me and we continue down the treacherous length of Baker Street in a silence that is equally frosty, until –

"All I know, Doctor, is that impropriety seems rife amongst the young these days; it is almost acceptable to flout the conventions that keep our society whole and proper."

Clearly, something had rattled our dear lady, and I sensed an eagerness for the sharing of a troubled mind. Thanks to my friend, I was quite used to the role of sounding board and auditor, thus I adjusted my load and spoke:

"What troubles you, Mrs Hudson? Have the Irregulars been rattling the dustbins too late of an evening again? I have told – "

"Mr Holmes has been visited twice by the same young lady within the last four and twenty hours, sir; and only _one_ of those times was she escorted by a chaperone. Most improper in my day…"

Not at all what I had expected, thus, I momentarily found myself lost for an adequate response.

"A … young lady?"

"Auburn haired, brownest of eyes and poorly nourished. A frail young girl, who might profit from one of my mince and dumpling suppers. She came yesterday morning in the company of a very fine lady, the Countess Morcar, who has been in the papers this last week."

This, again, was quite new information to the man whose closest friend had dubbed ` _my Boswell_ `.

"And then, in the afternoon, she came again – alone – and was let in by Billy ( _I would have had a few words to say had I opened the door, Doctor_ ). He said she stayed a half hour – _a half hour, Doctor Watson!_ (and Mr Holmes with such a sick headache from yesterday`s shenanigans) What could a young lady need to stay a further half hour for when she had already visited a whole hour that very morning?"

By now, I had gathered myself slightly.

"Mrs Hudson, you must understand that Mr Holmes has a range of clients, regardless of age, gender or gentility, and sees them at his ( _and their_ ) convenience. You may rest assured that no propriety would have been breeched. I do know of the lady, and I do understand her to be a most gentle, intelligent and articulate young woman. She has assisted Mr Holmes and myself greatly this past week ( _I lift the dead weight once more_ ) and I believe her sensibilities to be above reproach."

Seemingly appeased ( _for the moment_ ), Mrs Hudson merely sniffs, inclines her head and continues in our rather uncomfortable procession homewards. Windows along Baker Street do seem quite festive, however – a Christmas treat for tired eyes. Sprigs of holly fashioned above doorways into wreaths; Christmas roses peeping brightly out of vases within frosted windows, and candles glimmering in a warm, cosy and inviting fashion at almost every window.

No, not _almost_ , but actually _every window_.

It seems that 221B, the last bastion of puritan sparseness, holds a small, flickering candelabra in its window, imbuing a soft, golden glow into the inky glass surrounding it.

"Oh, look Doctor Watson, Mr Holmes has lit my Christmas candlesticks at long last! I ask every year, but he never has until now."

And any remaining wisp of an improper thought is melted away, much as the frosts around the window at Baker Street, as she smiles in happiness. And, as I escort the lady and the monstrous goose up the stoop into the warmth of our hallway, I find myself idly wondering:

 _Two visits in one day?_

 _ **~x~**_

 **Part Thirteen: An Opportune Circumstance**

I am not a doctor. I cannot legally tell a tale of what ails a living body, or, indeed a dead one. I am a woman of little fortune, and as such, I must take my chances where I may.

However, a little miracle has happened, and I am adrift with the kind of joy that transcends a person. The kind of happiness that changes lives and gives succour to hopes and dreams and miracles.

One miracle would have been sufficient, but once Nature has decided where one joy must fall, it seems another must reconcile.

The year is 1895. I live in enlightened times, since an Act passed in 1876 permitted women to train as doctors. A dear friend of mine confided to me that her worst sufferings would have been spared had her physician been a woman, and I felt (feel) so strongly that a Dispensary run by a female staff would encourage the ladies who suffer in silence to come forward. Countess Morcar is good friends with a wonderful woman by the name of Elizabeth Garrett Anderson who has pioneered her own entry into the _Society for Apothecaries_ , and who has extolled and encouraged the starting of a new apothecary - a dispensary for women who wish to speak to other women; who want to be seen, and to be understood.

The Countess has suffered great loss and must mourn daily for her family, yet her strong and benevolent nature has transcended any personal pain to assist her friend in this matter. With the aid of her significant fortune, she is funding a new establishment, the _Marylebone Dispensary for Gentlewomen_ , which will open its doors in just under three months time. The place shall be well equipped with the most modern and high quality medical equipment, medicines and remedies, and staffed exclusively by women, including Miss Garrett Anderson herself.

And, as if this truly marvellous innovation was not enough, dear reader, there is another new and rather nervous employee who starts work at the Marylebone Dispensary in just under three months time.

Miss Margaret Anne Hooper.

Molly Hooper.

 _Myself._

I shall work in the dispensary as needed and shall also be funded by Countess Morcar to train as an actual physician at St Bart`s Hospital. The Countess appears to believe me deserving of such a great opportunity, and I can do nought but offer my heartfelt gratitude and my will to work my very hardest to justify such faith in a person.

"Faith in the goodness of others is all I have left to console me, my dear," she commented. "I could see your compassion shining forth like a beacon, and felt I must act upon the advice of Mr Holmes."

Mr Sherlock Holmes appears to have procured a little faith of his own.

 _And therein lies my other little miracle_.

Sherlock Holmes, _the Great Detective_ , the darling of the newspapers and the populous, who consider themselves much safer with the energy and intellect of such a man on their side. A great thinker, a genius; his body a mere appendix to his brain, indifferent to the emotive desires and heartaches of the rest of the world (unless, of course, they result in a criminal or puzzling act which gleans his interest).

Sherlock Holmes, with his astonishingly bright eyes that see so much ( _of what we do not_ ) and his dark, unruly curls, sharp cheekbones and long, nervous hands, moving constantly, with an immutable, nervous energy. Long, spare limbs wrapped within fine tailoring; pacing, searching, finding, _knowing._

But Mr Holmes does not know all. He does not often explore the motives of his own heart; why would he? He considers himself to be a cold and focused individual, with little time or need for such distractions. This we have read in Dr Watson`s accounts of him, and from his own lips on several occasions, but _I_ know, dear readers ...

I know differently.

 **~x~**


	8. A Christmas Epilogue

**Part Fourteen: Epilogue**

 **Baker Street**

 **Christmas Eve**

 **11.25pm**

It was the hour a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock when my friend Sherlock Holmes deigned to return to our humble abode that evening. As he entered our cosy rooms, bringing a flurry of cold air and snowflakes with him, I glanced pointedly at my pocket watch as he grasped a (now cold) mince pie from the tray Mrs Hudson had sent up hours previously and ravenously bit into it.

"Yes, Watson, the hour is late," he commented, idly, without even glancing in my direction, "but I have had several loose ends to tie up with Gregson and Lestrade regarding the Morcar case and I had a devil of a job finding a cab tonight."

"Perhaps that is because most cabbies are at home with their families on this Christmas Eve, Holmes," ventured I, not without a taint of acerbity, I admit. My friend, however, appeared not to notice my tone and was rifling through a bizarre selection of laboratory equipment, including a Culpepper microscope and a copper steam kettle.

"Are you searching for something amongst all this detritus? Your catalogue of lichens is over by the gasogene, since it was threatening my enjoyment of supper."

Still no response, since he was now holding a smeared looking slide up to the lamp for closer inspection. As used as I was to Holmes`s occasional lapses from social niceties, I was becoming a little impatient with him, since I had waited all evening for his company and chance to discuss the Morcar case for my notes. Also, it _was_ Christmas.

"Or, perhaps," I continued, observing him closely, "could it be that _Miss Hooper_ left some item behind on _one_ of the occasions she visited this afternoon? A glove? A hat pin? A delicate lace handkerchief?" and I am gratified, yet a little surprised to see him suddenly stop in his rummagings and turn to face me.

He looks searchingly, as do I. He knows I have spoken to Mrs Hudson rather than deduced such a visitation, but I have seen the faint flush of colour high on his cheek, therefore, what must I deduce of my friend`s heart? As every good pathologist knows, a heart will tell a tale long after it has ceased to beat, therefore, must not a heart that has never beaten in time to the vagaries of love, occasionally be brought to life?

I look, unabashed into the bright, blue Icelandic eyes of Sherlock Holmes and watch as he suddenly puts down a Bunsen and breaks into an uncharacteristic wide smile that is so open, genuine and honest that I cannot resist smiling back.

"Merry Christmas, Watson," he says, as I hear the clock softly chime midnight in the hallway.

 **THE END**

* * *

 **A/N: Ah! The underplayed subtleties of a Victorian gentleman (especially Sherlock Holmes!). However, even though I am no detective, I do deduce something has shifted in his universe; something small, yet precious (like the Carbuncle itself) with the potential to grow, unfurl and alter the hearts involved in this story.**

 **Things will never be the same again.**

 **And ... what about the riddle of The Second Visitation? Now THERE is a missing scene that`s begging to be written! :)**

 **Thank you so much for your wonderful support of this little tale; it means much to chat about one of my favourite subjects to others who enjoy Sherlock/Sherlock Holmes tales too.**

 **Am very much looking forward to watching the BBC version of The Blue Carbuncle in the Christmas Special this year - I am sure it will surpass expectations.**

 **Until the next time,**

 **Emma x**

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